As if a prancing sun fell into a ditch,
A deep dark crevice, reality's glitch.

The sun shriveled, a mere imitation he had become.
Try as he might, the darkness he could not overcome.
Oft doubted if he really was the sun.
If light ever existed, now that a dark age had begun.

With no one else there to blame,
Naught but himself to direct his anger's flame.
Convinced that all his endeavors would be in vain.
For he had done what should never be, he'd caused another, heartfelt pain.

Ailed by what he believed to be true,
The sun, saw naught but blue.
How would any amount of effort allow him to rise?
When the depths of his own being he had come to despise.

Plagued partly by what he thought,
Partly by running from battles that needed to be fought.
He walked aimlessly, though he rightly knew what it was he sought.
He slipped and pleaded, slipped again and pleaded; time was all he bought.

The signs manifested and grew,
As if he'd ingested a poisonous brew.
Antidotes tho he plenty consumed,
They would never work, the sun assumed.

For he thought he had no right to live,
No goodness to him God would give.
That was his stubborn belief.
For he remembered well, how he'd once caused heartfelt grief.

© wolf’s cub